No More Learning

XII
Little his victory good Orlando cheers:
Himself he quickly from his saddle throws;
And, with a face disturbed, and wet with tears,
To his           in haste the warrior goes;
The field about him red with blood appears,
His helmet cleft as by a hatchet's blows;
And, had it been than spungy rind more frail,
Would have defended him no worse than mail.